oo4 » dream
Deidara is four years old, sitting outside his house in the dirt and making birds out of modelling clay. It's not the best sort of clay, and he doesn't like how it tastes, but his parents won't let him have anything else yet. He was sitting in the dirt under the window, and he'd positioned himself under the window to hear his mother talking to that shinobi who'd come to the house, because they were talking about him and he liked that.
"He's a genius, so young but he can already use those hands to--"
"I don't want to hear about those hands."
Deidara scowled a bit and scratched at the bandages currently wrapped around his palms. It was no fun making birds this way, but at least he didn't have to taste it. Not that bandage glue was much better on his tongues.
He'd have them off by the end of the day, but if his mother caught him right outside he'd get his clay taken away and he hated that.
"--just a little bit of training and--"
"My son is not becoming a shinobi."
She could say what she wanted, he'd do it anyway. He'd seen what the older children could do, and he would be better than they were. He knew it because of how so many of them were coming back from Konoha, and he knew they must have been bad to get so injured.
Mostly he saw orphans in the streets, whimpering and begging for food. Because of war, his mother had said, and he could tell she was mad so he'd made the sad face she'd wanted and she'd left him alone to sculpt.
The shinobi left the house. Deidara's mother came out a moment later, wheeling her way out and showing expertise in the wheelchair that seemed strange for one who had only had it for a few months, when she, too, came back. His father, as far as Deidara knew, was still there. His mother said he was alive; Deidara was more interested in sculpting, so he didn't really care.
"Deidara-kun, come inside," his mother said, and Deidara could tell she was angry so he did, putting on the appropriate face of one who felt sad, because it usually helped these situations.
As soon as the door was closed behind them she grabbed Deidara's arm and held it, vicelike, pulling out the roll of bandages and wrapping his hands again.
"Mama, that hurts," he said, scowling now as he tried to tug his hand away. "Mama--"
"Be quiet," she snapped, and Deidara decided he'd just pull it off later, lest he risk losing his clay now.
When he was finally free (and his hands wrapped three times over, to the point his fingers were slightly red with captured blood) he ran out of the house, sticking his tongue out as he left and working his way across the bridges and thin paths as high as he could go--this was his favorite spot.
His mother was stupid and he hated her. He unwrapped the bandages carefully, so he wouldn't damage the mouths beneath, and dug around in a small alcove for the clay he'd stolen. It was a lot better than what his mother let him have--real earthy clay that tasted better than the plastic stuff he usually got. He popped some into the mouth of one hand and began practicing for real.
Someday his mother would be sorry.
-
[Deidara growls a bit as he wakes up; he hasn't dreamed of his childhood in some time, but the memory of the bandages has always annoyed him. He glances at the Hitomi--of course it's on and recording, damn thing--and turns it off.]
"He's a genius, so young but he can already use those hands to--"
"I don't want to hear about those hands."
Deidara scowled a bit and scratched at the bandages currently wrapped around his palms. It was no fun making birds this way, but at least he didn't have to taste it. Not that bandage glue was much better on his tongues.
He'd have them off by the end of the day, but if his mother caught him right outside he'd get his clay taken away and he hated that.
"--just a little bit of training and--"
"My son is not becoming a shinobi."
She could say what she wanted, he'd do it anyway. He'd seen what the older children could do, and he would be better than they were. He knew it because of how so many of them were coming back from Konoha, and he knew they must have been bad to get so injured.
Mostly he saw orphans in the streets, whimpering and begging for food. Because of war, his mother had said, and he could tell she was mad so he'd made the sad face she'd wanted and she'd left him alone to sculpt.
The shinobi left the house. Deidara's mother came out a moment later, wheeling her way out and showing expertise in the wheelchair that seemed strange for one who had only had it for a few months, when she, too, came back. His father, as far as Deidara knew, was still there. His mother said he was alive; Deidara was more interested in sculpting, so he didn't really care.
"Deidara-kun, come inside," his mother said, and Deidara could tell she was angry so he did, putting on the appropriate face of one who felt sad, because it usually helped these situations.
As soon as the door was closed behind them she grabbed Deidara's arm and held it, vicelike, pulling out the roll of bandages and wrapping his hands again.
"Mama, that hurts," he said, scowling now as he tried to tug his hand away. "Mama--"
"Be quiet," she snapped, and Deidara decided he'd just pull it off later, lest he risk losing his clay now.
When he was finally free (and his hands wrapped three times over, to the point his fingers were slightly red with captured blood) he ran out of the house, sticking his tongue out as he left and working his way across the bridges and thin paths as high as he could go--this was his favorite spot.
His mother was stupid and he hated her. He unwrapped the bandages carefully, so he wouldn't damage the mouths beneath, and dug around in a small alcove for the clay he'd stolen. It was a lot better than what his mother let him have--real earthy clay that tasted better than the plastic stuff he usually got. He popped some into the mouth of one hand and began practicing for real.
Someday his mother would be sorry.
-
[Deidara growls a bit as he wakes up; he hasn't dreamed of his childhood in some time, but the memory of the bandages has always annoyed him. He glances at the Hitomi--of course it's on and recording, damn thing--and turns it off.]